Undersheriff and serjeant were admitted into the bailey without question, though they were watched every step by curious eyes. They entered the hall to find it empty, and walked to the door at the end, where Catchpoll beat a smart tattoo upon the heavy planks. It was opened by a man, or rather one just ‘fledged’ to manhood, muscled from a man’s labour, but yet with a certain gangly untidiness of limb and uncertainty of jawline. This must be Corbin, Brictmer the Steward’s hope and joy. He vacillated between looking respectful and bullish, as if he could not decide whether he should admit them or not. In the end he did what was wisest, and left the problem to someone more important.
‘The lord Sheriff’s men are here, my lady.’ He did not specify which lady he addressed.
The lady Avelina emerged from the gloom, thrusting Corbin out of the way before her, and pulling the door closed behind her. She stood, head held high and bosom heaving, which pleased Catchpoll no end, before the solar door. Her arms were outstretched as if protecting it and its occupant with her body. Corbin looked even more unsure what he should do. The lady’s pose looked very impressive until the door was opened behind her by the lady Matilda, whereupon the younger woman almost fell backwards into the chamber.
‘Do not be a fool, girl,’ she admonished, as if her daughter-in-law were a scullery maid, and stared at Bradecote. ‘If you must speak with my son, lord Undersheriff, then speak, but be mindful that he is weak, and still confused of mind. If you press upon him too hard, I will have you leave.’ Bradecote wondered if she might actually try to achieve that herself, forcibly. ‘He,’ and she pointed at Catchpoll, ‘does not enter.’
Bradecote took breath to remonstrate at being given orders, but Catchpoll responded swiftly.
‘Be sure I shall not, my lady.’ It was unusually meek and mild of Catchpoll, but Bradecote did not so much as blink an eye, knowing the serjeant had never been interested in remaining for the interview, and now had Corbin on hand to ply with questions.
Bradecote stepped into the solar, and the smell of lavender and rosemary overlaid with illness, but he did not smell death. Just for a moment his brain marvelled that it was that particular sense that alerted him, more than sight or sound, to its presence, as if it whispered in the manner of a cooking odour, teasing with what was to come. The room was overwarm, with a brazier burning beyond the bed, and a man with sallow skin that looked as bloodless as vellum, lying beneath the covers. Well, there was not a doubt the man had been very ill. However, the eyes, which were open but a little, did not, thought Bradecote, have the distant, bemused look he would have expected with such a complexion. They glinted in a surprisingly alert way.
‘Durand FitzRoger, I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff. I understand you are ill − have been ill − but I am investigating the death of an envoy of the Prince of Powys, almost certainly within this manor, and while your fever might have been in abeyance. I must therefore ask questions of you. Do you understand?’
The man wet his lips, and nodded, slowly.
‘Hywel ap Rhodri was your cousin, the son of your mother’s sister. He came here about two weeks since. You saw him.’ Bradecote had no proof of this but did not offer it as a question. If the man refuted it, so be it.
‘But a little.’ The voice was tired.
‘You supped with him, perhaps?’
Again Durand FitzRoger nodded.
‘Was his manner towards the women, of rank or otherwise, seemly?’
‘I cannot recall.’
No, thought Bradecote, you say the words, but memory makes those eyes glitter the more. You recall well enough.
‘Did he tell you why he came?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ask to have speech with your brother alone?’ Again, Bradecote had no proof, but he was interested as to whether Durand would immediately create distance between the murdered man and his brother, or not. He watched, watched as intently as a cat with a mouse, and was as still. There was a pause, very slight, when he would swear Durand was weighing up possibilities. There came the nod, and Bradecote heard a soft but sudden intake of breath from behind his back. Was that surprise at a truth admitted or a lie created?
‘But you did not speak with him privately?’
‘No. Saw him at dinner. Welshman.’ Durand sounded suitably vague and confused, and his hand gripped the blanket convulsively. There was a swishing of skirts.
‘You have learnt all you need, and can see my son is in no condition to be of use to you.’ The lady Matilda’s voice was low, but firm. Bradecote did not turn to look at her, but raised a hand to quiet her.
‘One question more, my lady. FitzRoger, did you kill, or did you have killed, Hywel ap Rhodri?’
‘No. I did not.’
‘Thank you. I wish you a full recovery, and safe return to service with de Clare.’ Bradecote turned, and found the lady Matilda glaring at him. The lady Avelina ignored him entirely, but went to the bed, and took up a cloth from a bowl of water set on a stand beside it, and began to bathe Durand’s face, murmuring as a mother to a child, and Bradecote thought the curling lip of the older woman was more at that than at him.
‘I could have answered your questions,’ hissed the lady Matilda. ‘What point was there in agitating a sick man?’
‘I think, my lady, he is strong enough not to be “agitated” by the few questions I put to him.’
‘And what weight can you give to the answers of a fevered brain, my lord? He is confused of mind, and nothing he says is assured.’
‘Then you must corroborate. Did he only meet Hywel ap Rhodri at dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he did not speak with him alone?’
‘No.’
‘How can you know that? Or do you watch your son as a hen with but a single chick, and never let him from your sight?’
‘You are insulting, my lord.’
‘No, it is you who are insulting, insulting my intelligence. If your son was well enough to be sat at table, he would not be under your eye for every minute, for he is a man grown, with his own will. He would not relish you acting as nursemaid.’
She coloured.
‘When did you hear that Hywel was on his way to Gloucester?’ Bradecote threw the unexpected question at her.
‘I … do not recall.’
‘It would seem a rash thing to make known, as his prince’s envoy.’
‘He was among kin.’
‘Kin he had never met before, and if he knew Durand FitzRoger is of the household of Gilbert de Clare, then he may well know that de Clare is, for the present, sided with King Stephen.’
‘He did not make any announcement. I must have heard it from his servant.’ She looked flustered.
‘What was the servant’s name, lady?’ He was pressing her, pressing her hard.
‘How should I know or care?’ She drew herself up, imperiously.
‘Because I am wondering why you were present when his servant made such a declaration.’
‘He said it to Hywel ap Rhodri, at …’
‘Dinner?’
‘The second night. Durand was not present upon the second night, for he was feeling unwell again.’
‘How convenient.’ Hugh Bradecote was not a man who sneered often, but when he did, it was impressive. It also achieved his aim. ‘I am wondering also how you understood the man when he had almost no words other than Welsh.’
‘You cannot speak to me in this manner. I am Matilda FitzGilbert, lady of this manor and …’
‘Lady mother of the lord, Thorold FitzRoger, which is not quite the same, since he is wed.’ Bradecote wanted this woman angry, for she was only going to betray things she wanted hidden when in ire. His voice was smooth. ‘I wonder what Hywel ap Rhodri wanted to talk in private about, with your elder son?’
‘Durand’s mind wanders. There was no meeting.’
‘Do not tell me you watch Thorold as closely as Durand, for it would be impossible if one were tied to a sickbed and the other entertaining a guest, however unwillingly.’
If looks could be weapons, Bradecote knew he would have a dagger at his throat by now.
‘He would have been explaining his misdemeanours with the servant girls, no doubt.’ It sounded a feeble reason even to the lady.
‘A private interview over a subject that was probably raised by the lady Avelina telling her husband of his wandering hands in the first place?’
‘She would not complain if a man’s hands wandered over any part of her,’ snapped the lady Matilda.
‘Actually, I was referring to the maid Aldith having complained to her mistress, but we will let that pass, for now.’ He concealed his interest. ‘You see, if the lady of the manor,’ he stressed the position, and saw her squirm, ‘reported it to her husband, and you also were well aware of it, it sounds most unlikely that Hywel ap Rhodri would want to talk in private to make an apology.’
‘I doubt he ever apologised for anything he did,’ she spat.
‘That, at the least, my lady, is probably very true. What did he do that made you so angered against him?’
She flushed, a deep, dark redness suffusing her cheeks, overlaying the mere spots that marked her anger. Bradecote would swear she was embarrassed, and suddenly he thought of what she had said earlier, that Hywel was like his father. He made a guess, but it was not a wild one.
‘Did Rhodri ap Arwel ever apologise to you?’
Her response took him completely by surprise. She hit him, full across the face, very hard. His cheek stung, and he could feel the scarlet weal of her imprint rise upon his skin. Only by the slight flaring of his nostrils might one have seen that he had to control himself at that.
‘Was that what you would have liked to do to him? Perhaps you did, all those years ago.’ His voice was still even. ‘Let me guess. If Hywel, and I am afraid we know an awful lot about Hywel ap Rhodri and women, was like his sire, then Rhodri ap Arwel would be bold enough to woo two sisters and find it exciting, and then choose one to the disappointment of the other. You were disappointed, weren’t you, and then married off to Roger FitzGilbert, a man as exciting as a bucket and, I guess again, hardly youthful and vigorous. It must have been a great disappointment. I wonder at you being so dutiful.’
‘She had no choice.’
Bradecote turned. Avelina FitzRoger stood in the doorway, and her mouth was twisted in disdain.
‘But—’
‘Rhodri ap Arwel preferred Hywel’s mother, Emma, and I am sure I can see why, but not until after he had “tasted the pleasures” of the older sister. Not quite good enough, were you?’ The lady Avelina laughed, and it was not a nice laugh. ‘And there are consequences to that.’
‘What would you know, Barren Wife.’ Bradecote actually stepped back, letting the two women’s mutual loathing crackle like lightning between them.
‘Was Roger FitzGilbert paid well to take you, who had already been “taken”? Did he know? Or was the mewling rat of a son a shock so early in the marriage?’
‘Thorold was an eight-month child. He came early to the world, and seemed like not to live, yet he did, however weak it made him. He had that strength, more is the pity.’ The older woman sounded bitter.
‘Aye, and pity for me. Barren Wife you call me, but what wife would not be with a husband like him. I am married to a man who should not even be master here.’
‘No. He is Roger’s son, Roger’s blood. I did not wed until three months after my sister, and Thorold was an eight-month babe, I tell you. Upon the Holy Book I would swear that, as I told Dur—’ She stopped, and blinked at Bradecote as if he had appeared out of nowhere.
‘So Hywel ap Rhodri told Durand he was the rightful lord of Doddenham, did he? True or false, that was a dangerous thing to disclose, and mighty malicious too. Did you and your sister part on bad terms, lady, all those years ago? Did he make the claim out of spite, or revenge?’
‘Both, I dare say. He was his father’s son, and his mother’s also. Between them they spawned a cross between a goat and a serpent, all hungry pizzle and false tongue. Thorold is my son, and the son of Roger FitzGilbert, oft though I have regretted it. And,’ she looked back to her daughter-in-law, ‘if you think Thorold would be glad of an heir of your body, even if through his brother’s loins, think again. Is that why you whine and weep over Durand? Do you fear he might die and leave you unsatisfied, girl?’ A thought hit her. ‘Sweet Virgin, you did not let that Welsh ram tup you, did you? I told Thorold he was a fool to marry you.’
Bradecote had been congratulating himself upon finding out so much, but this was now but one step from a cat fight, and no man with any sense got involved in those. He said nothing, and simply walked out. In the fresh air he heaved a huge sigh of relief, and headed for the gate, just as Thorold FitzRoger trotted in, though there was no sign of his hawker. For a moment Bradecote considered warning him, but then decided if the man could not control either wife or mother he was not much of a man, and besides, he did not like the man. He was more concerned that the tingling handprint on his cheek should not linger enough for Catchpoll to notice.
Meanwhile, Catchpoll had been playing ‘fatherly man of the world’ with Corbin, with regard to women. The lad’s brain was in a whirl, which was ideal for Catchpoll’s purposes. As soon as Bradecote had disappeared into the solar, and the door shut to exclude all others, Catchpoll took Corbin gently by the arm and led him outside to a bench at the side of the hall.
‘Can’t say as you can ever understand ’em, lad, but a wise man learns when the best thing to do is get out of the way. Women!’ He shook his head in mystification.
‘She pushed me out of the way,’ said Corbin, dreamily, though regretfully. He was torn between wishing she had ordered him to bar the door, and thus prove his devotion to her, and the fact that in shoving him through the doorway she had actually touched him. Catchpoll was no fool.
‘Aye, which proves women do not think straight. If that door was to be barred and barred proper, it was you, not she, who could do it. But did the lady think? No, she did not, at least not like a man. They reacts, you see, like a startled horse, all feelings, not thinkings. Must be hard, being in a chamber with two such as the ladies of this hall.’
‘They hates each other. Always picking on her is old lady Matilda, treating her like a child, or a servant, and my lady Avelina is doing so much, tending the lord Durand even in the night.’
‘Doubt that delights her lord much, though, if she leaves his bed to—’
‘The doubt is whether he would notice. The poor lady is much neglected, and what man, what real man, could neglect a lady as beautiful as she is?’ Corbin tried not to think how wonderful the lady Avelina would be curled up beside him, because he was too lowly and unworthy to even sleep like a hound at the foot of her bed, and it was sinful, her being a married lady. On the other hand, thinking about it made him tingle, and he could not imagine actually wanting to waste time in sleeping at all if she were lying there …
Catchpoll read him as easily as he could the trail of a shod horse in soft ground. He let him have his moments of sinful pleasure. What he had not said to Corbin was that in the first flush of manhood, where the body had reached a peak but the mind was yet to lose the impetuosity of the child, the male could be as ‘all feelings’ as the female. Corbin was in just such a state, and Catchpoll knew that to be dangerous. The lad could be manipulated to do things in heat, and without thought to consequences.
‘Has the lord Durand been so sick he needs nursing through the night?’ Catchpoll dragged Corbin’s thoughts reluctantly from the lady Avelina.
‘He has that, poor man. At times he has thrashed about, his mind lost, his body tormented as by a fiend from hell,’ Corbin crossed himself, ‘and I have had to hold him down upon the bed. At others he was so weak I had to lift his head that he might be given the draughts my lady Matilda makes of willow and feverfew. And him such a strong and vital man in health.’ There was a touch of admiration.
‘But yet sometimes he is recovered, and then falls back into sickness?’
‘It is strange, but so. My lady was jubilant when first he improved and could leave his bed, though weak, but the lady Matilda was watchful, and refused to give thanks for deliverance.’
‘Well, she has the years to have seen such things and know, where the younger lady would not.’
‘She was right, the lady Matilda. For some days he seemed upon the road to health, even ate within the hall when—And then of a sudden he was as bad as before.’
Catchpoll noted the omission of any mention of Hywel ap Rhodri and thought it time to introduce the name.
‘When the Welshmen were here, so I heard.’ It was worth seeing how Corbin reacted. He made no denial, perhaps eased by thinking the knowledge already in the open. ‘Never trusted the Welsh, myself,’ he added.
‘Never met many before they came. “Riddian”, that was the servant’s name; he seemed decent enough, not that you could get much from him, but …’ Corbin’s face clouded.
‘But …?’ Catchpoll waited, patiently, as the fisherman who has the fish investigating the bait.
‘He was a bastard, lordly or not, that Hywel ab Roddy, who thought anything in a skirt was his.’ Corbin’s hands clenched into fists.
‘Well, the lady Matilda wears a skirt, but I doubt he would have gone that far. A man would need to be lost of mind to fancy a woman of her ilk.’ Catchpoll wanted any hint of whether Hywel had sniffed about the skirts of the lady Avelina, and thought this might get an indirect answer.
‘No, he liked them young,’ Corbin growled, and for a moment there was no youth, but man, revolted as Walkelin had been revolted. ‘I am glad he is dead, by whatever means.’ It was almost a cry.
‘Not just a pat on the behind and a stolen kiss type, then?’ Catchpoll knew all too well Hywel’s ‘type’.
Corbin just shook his head, brows gathered, a muscle moving in his cheek. Had he seen? Had he intervened? If Corbin had seen his cousin speechless, had heard that Aldith, the girl he grew up beside, had struck out at Hywel ap Rhodri to defend her honour, might he have acted if he saw the wench Winfraeth being molested? Was that what she was holding back? Such simple folk as these might not be certain that killing a man caught in the act of rape would not be a crime, just as with the man caught stealing the chickens or the scrip of coin. Killing him after, now that was different, and Catchpoll had no idea which might have occurred.
Bradecote found Catchpoll and Walkelin leaning against the east wall of the church, out of the sun.
‘You look like the lord Sheriff when he has heard how much tax we have collected,’ declared Catchpoll, grinning.
‘Well, that may be good or bad, depending on whether it is enough.’
‘Never enough, my lord, you can be sure of that, but usually enough to keep him in a decent humour. I take it the solar proved useful.’
‘I certainly learnt much, within it and without, though where it takes us is as yet unclear. Have you discoveries also?’
‘Aye, my lord, but let us see how they sits with yours.’ Catchpoll moved to the side, thus creating a space for the undersheriff to join them in the shade.
‘Well, some things were already guessed. The two ladies of the manor hate each other to the point where, when I left, it was a toss-up as to whether they might be found by Thorold FitzRoger brawling on the hall floor.’
‘Then my money would be on the older dame,’ laughed Catchpoll.
‘Agreed. The lady Avelina dotes upon Durand, but not the way his mother does, just as the priest said, and that lady even made the suggestion that the lady Avelina might have let Hywel have his way with her too, out of excess of desire.’
‘Or the fact that her lord is not up to the task, as young Corbin told me,’ interjected Catchpoll. ‘I would guess that was common knowledge in the manor.’
‘Well, what I got from Durand was interesting. He is not a well man, it takes no physician to see that, and looks weak at present, but his head is not as confused as he, or his mother, tries to make out. I doubt he could walk or ride far this day, but he could think straight and fast enough. He admitted only to meeting Hywel ap Rhodri at dinner the first night, and claimed he knew nothing of the man’s manner with women, of any rank. That was a lie written over his vellum cheeks and in his narrowed eyes.’
‘Which means if he and the lady Avelina are … entangled, and he thought the Welshman had been taking the “rights” he had in turn taken from his brother, he has a motive for murder,’ murmured Walkelin.
‘He does, though whether his ailing on the second night was real or feigned, we do not know. If he did not kill him, he might have had Corbin do it, upon the pretence the man had insulted the lady, though he denied either, firmly.’
‘It would work, my lord, as a trail of events. If the lady has been playing false with the brother …’ Catchpoll scratched at his beard.
‘But there is a hole in this bucket, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Durand FitzRoger must be nigh on thirty, and has been in the employ of Gilbert de Clare some years. I doubt he has lived here since his brother’s marriage. The lady Avelina is not many years over a score, at a guess, and from one of the lady Matilda’s insults, Thorold took not a child bride, but rather a woman grown to beauty, and has therefore wed since Durand left the manor.’
‘Three years ago, so said Brictmer the Steward, remember,’ interjected Catchpoll.
‘Why?’ asked Walkelin.
‘What do you mean, “why”?’ Catchpoll frowned at his serjeanting apprentice.
‘I mean if Thorold FitzRoger scarcely beds his wife, why would a beauty interest him?’
‘A fair point, Walkelin,’ agreed Bradecote, ‘but he would want an heir, especially if he and his brother are not close. It might be he thought a comely wife might inspire him, or even that it would conceal his failings, because others, lusting after her, would not be able to imagine that he did not. Things are not always simple. It does not help with the fact that the lady might never have met Durand until he returned ailing upon a litter, and too sick to lust after.’
‘An awful lot of lusting in this murder, my lord,’ remarked Catchpoll.
‘There is.’
‘Would not Durand have returned to see his mother, at least a few times over the years?’ Walkelin, a good and dutiful son, could not imagine cutting all connection with his mother.
‘My lord, you forget the priest. He said that he could not discount a bodily sinning between the two, but hoped it was just flattery and suggestion. He can only know that from previous encounters and rumour,’ Catchpoll reminded them.
‘There is that. I forgot. Let us accept, then, that they have met before, when he was in health and of full manliness. He comes home very ill, and she nurses him, but fears he will die. Hywel turns up, all Welsh charm …’ Catchpoll guffawed derisively at this, ‘and giving off signals like a stag in the rutting season. If she is starved of a man, and Durand, however much she loves him for his body, may be of no further use to her, might she show willing?’
‘She would have to be a pretty heartless piece.’ Walkelin was rather shocked at the thought of a woman effectively using men for her needs, at a base level.
‘I doubt having a heart would aid her in her life at present, Walkelin. She is probably selfish, grown so if not born so, realising she is trapped, and not even having a child to give heart-love.’ Bradecote tried to feel some sympathy for her situation.
‘Which means Durand might have had a motive to kill Hywel ap Rhodri.’
‘And what of the husband, my lord? Even a dog who does not want to eat his bone will snap at the hound that tries to steal it from him,’ Walkelin added.
‘The more so if he caught them at it.’ Catchpoll nodded.
‘If he had caught them thus, he would have killed the man at that moment, so they could not have been together the first night.’
‘But Hywel was gone by the third morning, my lord, so if he found them the second night …’ Walkelin did not give up.
‘But Catchpoll and I saw the lady’s reaction when Thorold told her Hywel was dead. She did not know. If he had killed him, stabbed him in the back, surely it would be when Thorold found them in adultery, and even if he found but did not kill then, she would guess that, dragged off, Hywel’s treatment would be severe.’
‘And Thorold liked telling her he was dead. If he had killed him, I think he would have taunted her with it before now, my lord.’
‘That he did, Catchpoll. However, think on it another way. Thorold FitzRoger is not a man of strong body or fighting mind. He likes to watch. He likes his hawking, but have you seen a single hound about this manor? I doubt he hunts. Such a man might think it more appealing to wait, not even let the wife know he knows she is cuckolding him at this point, and has Corbin drag him off in the night, kill the man in front of him and hide the corpse, upon the reason that he had found the Welshman abusing the lady. That ensures the manor remains silent to protect Corbin. He can bring out the deed to taunt his wife at will.’
‘Nasty, that, but … possible. So, both brothers might have good reason to see Hywel dead.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘That is not all, though.’ Bradecote raised a hand. ‘We have to include the lady Matilda.’
‘We do?’ Walkelin blinked in surprise.
‘She has reason. We knew she married Roger FitzGilbert after her sister went into Wales as the wife of Rhodri ap Arwel, and I had guessed he had made eyes at her too. But there is the possibility there were more than stolen kisses. Thorold was an early babe, and weak. The lady Avelina accused her of having borne Rhodri’s brat, and that Durand was the rightful lord of Doddenham.’
Catchpoll whistled through his gapping teeth, which Bradecote interpreted correctly.
‘Yes, dangerous talk. The lady Matilda swears she was wed three months after her sister, and that Thorold was born a month too soon. If that is true, then he has to be Roger FitzGilbert’s. If she heard the words from Hywel ap Rhodri herself, who was told that tale by his mother, and with him wanting to make trouble for the aunt his mother hated, then the lady Matilda might have thought it just an attempt to blackmail or upset her. She might not have known Durand knew at the first, and told him it was a lie only later, even after Hywel left.’
‘Do you believe her, my lord?’ Catchpoll was pulling a ‘thinking face’.
‘I think it likely that Thorold is the rightful lord. She sounded regretful that it was so, but firm in her assertion. Whether she succumbed to Rhodri ap Arwel I do not know. Not every coupling ends in a child. When he chose her sister, she may have told her what had occurred, or Rhodri might have boasted of it to his wife to hurt her in an argument, or when the wine took him. We shall never know, but neither sister had direct contact ever again, and Matilda FitzGilbert is a very bitter and angry woman when it comes to Rhodri ap Arwel. If she heard the son was like the father with women, and he tried blackmailing her, she would have him removed without a second thought, both in revenge upon her sister and Rhodri, and because he might threaten Doddenham.’
‘Would she do it herself, my lord? I have not seen the lady.’ Walkelin did not find it easy to imagine her doing so.
‘She has the strength of will, and if she caught him unsuspecting, from behind, she might have done it herself.’ Catchpoll paused. ‘But …’
‘My “but” is that she has something that son Thorold shares, she would want to see the look in Hywel ap Rhodri’s eyes as the blade bit, watch him die. If she did it herself, I would have thought she would do so to his front, not in the back, though she might as easily have decided to order the death, for dishonours in the manor, to show her power here, which is strong.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘So the only one of the lordly class we dismiss is the lady Avelina herself, and we did not suspect her anyway.’
‘But we have better reasons now, my lord, and reasons we can prod and probe.’ Catchpoll was positive. ‘And young Walkelin has news from the hayfield also.’
‘Yes, my lord, I did as—’ Walkelin stopped. Winfraeth was coming into the village, a bucket in either hand, heading to the well. She was alone. Walkelin looked from serjeant to undersheriff, who both nodded. They slipped round the side of the church to sit upon the grass and think upon all they had learnt, whilst Walkelin would try and use his honest, decent face, to persuade the village girl to give up her secrets.